Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “Mr. Stevens the manager is going to have a helluva time getting that blood stain out of the carpet.” I tipped my head toward the floor. “What do you think he’ll use? Bleach won’t do the trick.”

  Archie stared at me. He let the bitterness evaporate for twenty seconds, then tried again. “You got any new ideas about the murder?”

  “Yeah, I think the convention’s over and the guy who did it got away.”

  “There were three thousand people in this hotel at the time. We couldn’t hold them. Or interview every one of them without a solid lead or at least a flimsy hint.”

  “Nobody saw anybody come to her room that night?”

  “Nobody that’s admitting anything.”

  “But you got evidence of somebody in the room?”

  “Rook, don’t go there.”

  I lowered my lids and stared straight at him. “Go where? I saw the bedsheets too.”

  “Don’t push.”

  “Archie, if you have relevant information about Anniesha, spill it.”

  He puffed a sigh, a little peep which sounded comical coming from his big body. His eyes scrunched into slits as he looked away. “Forensics found evidence she wasn’t alone all night.”

  “Obviously. Somebody shot her.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  I got his drift, but I waited ten seconds until the words felt right on my tongue. “Somebody was in bed with her? Had sex with her? Is that what your crack team of genius scientists found?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? You match the DNA to suspects, you got a possible killer.” When I stopped talking, Archie stopped breathing. I filled in the gap, so neither of us would die on the spot. Too much death in this room already. “And you want to know if the lucky mystery guy was me. Right?”

  He lifted his hands from his knees and spread the fingers wide, like they were fat supplicants begging my forgiveness. “Yeah. I mean, I’m not blaming you or nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time a reunion with the ex got a little more intense than the parties originally planned. You know, for old times’ sake. What’s past is past. Let bygone be bygones. You know how it goes.”

  “I know how it goes, Archie. But that’s not how it went with me and Annie. Nothing like that happened.”

  “Well, I needed to ask direct.” He paused a beat. “Cause we had reports from a couple of bellboys and a desk clerk they saw a woman matching Anniesha’s description kissing hot and heavy with a man who looked a lot like you.”

  My words darted with enough venom to make Archie gasp: “There’re lots of men who look like me.” Shielding this remnant of our privacy mattered. “Plenty of men.”

  “Not really. Tall, lanky, light-skin African American. Gimpy foot. It was you, Rook.” He huffed at the insult to his intelligence. “Or are you saying you didn’t make out with her that night?”

  I folded. “We kissed.” His shoulders sagged in misery, so I went on. “She walked me from the bar to the hotel entrance, like I told you. Then she kissed me. And I kissed her. That was it. Took the subway home. Came back to the hotel the next morning. Found her dead, just like I told you. I never saw Annie alive again after we kissed goodnight.”

  I snapped my mouth shut. A sticky silence fell between us. Archie wasn’t to blame; he was doing his job. He could have hauled me to the precinct for questioning. Made me repeat every sentence I’d already given him. I’d have to submit to a formal interrogation eventually. Soon I’d write it all down on police note pads, check it for accuracy, sign on the bottom line. But Archie’d stood up for me. He’d run interference with his brother cops to keep me off the list of suspects in Annie’s murder. For the time being. I didn’t know how much that intervention cost him, but it wasn’t without consequences. I didn’t want to get him in trouble.

  I softened my tone. “You need a DNA sample? For comparison. To rule me out.”

  “Nah, I got your statement. That’s good enough for me.”

  I barked in disbelief. “Good enough for you. But not your lieutenant. Take the sample, Archie. Keep us both in the clear.”

  He shrugged, reluctance tensing his face. Sweat drops beaded in his skimpy eyebrows. Archie was embarrassed. But my friend was a good detective. He pulled a slender plastic vial from an inside pocket of his jacket. He had the kit on him. He’d intended to get an elimination sample from me all along. The cotton bud tickled when he wiped it around my gums and inner cheek. He popped the damp swab into the tube, sealed it, scribbled my name on a label, and pressed it on the tube. Official. With the date and case number and his initials. Tough part over, the rest of the interview was a downhill tumble.

  “You got any ideas who this guy could be?” Archie lobbed questions into the sweet air. “I mean, when you were reminiscing and catching up, did she talk about any other man in her life?”

  “Did she confess her steamy bedroom secrets to me? No, Annie didn’t say anything like that. But then, she wouldn’t, would she?”

  Archie leaned back on his elbows, crumpling the bed quilt. He kept his eyes on the mirror over the desk in front of us. “We don’t figure this was some rando she found in the lobby. I guess it could be. Some women are like that.” A beat to convey an apology. “Do you think she’d do something like that? Pick up a stranger from the hotel bar and have sex with him on the spur of the moment?”

  “No, that’s not like her.” Present tense. Still. “Not the Annie I know.” Not the Annie I loved and maybe was ready to love again. Digging fingernails into my palms buried the thought for a while.

  When my pause stretched toward agony, Archie pushed on. “So, what was your gut telling you that night? Did you get a hint about who she was seeing? Who she’d hook up with? We’re at a dead end here. We got nothing.”

  “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “Have suspects for you.”

  “Like who?”

  My guesses were strong hunches, fueled by suspicion. But Archie was being straight with me. I owed him my best judgment. Even if the ideas were laced with bitterness and jealousy. “Like the two men we had drinks with the night she died.”

  “Who?” Archie stiffened, his bull neck starting from his collar.

  “Ricardo Luna, a whiz kid exec in Annie’s company. He was buzzing around her, sloppy and excited like he owned the golden ticket that night.” No need to mention my slap-down of Luna in the lobby the next day. Petty and irrelevant. If Ricky whined, I’d explain.

  “And who else?”

  “Gerald Keith. Professor at Alexander. Anthropology.”

  “Some university egghead? Sounds unlikely.”

  “He got his data from research at Annie’s company.”

  “And how do you figure collecting anthropology data turns into an affair?”

  I raised my fingers to tick the elements of the equation. “Intense interaction. Add flattery. Multiply by long hours. Equals sex. Happens all the time.” Brina and I had started that way, the formula was pretty standard.

  “Like an office romance?”

  “Yes. Minus the cubicles and copy machines.” I raised my eyebrows and Archie smirked.

  “So, you like either Professor Keith or this Luna kid for the murder?”

  “Maybe. Luna carries a gun. I saw it on him. No idea of the model.”

  “It’s a place to start. We’ll check on it.” His eyes turned wet, like a homesick Labrador retriever. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

  I didn’t have room for the sentimental BS Archie wanted to shovel. I expanded my description of the contenders. I had nothing to lose. And I wanted to catch my wife’s killer.

  “Rick Luna’s a hotshot number-cruncher who grabbed her attention. A mouthy suck-up. Slick and easy on the eyes, if you like the teen movie idol type. Annie does.” Tasted filthy saying that out loud so I rubbed my
tongue around inside my lips. After a quick rinse, I spit out the next description. “Gerry Keith has the high-power brains, status, flashy looks, and bulging ego to keep her interested. Both men were staying at the hotel, so they’re top contenders in the Who-killed-Annie sweepstakes.”

  “Thanks. Those leads could help. We’ll run DNA tests on these jokers. Miami-Dade police can help with Luna.” A damp sigh rushed from Archie’s chest, blowing minty air across the room. “I’m sorry to drag you through that, Rook. But we got to explore as many angles as we can. Whoever had sex with her might have gotten into some kind of dispute afterwards and shot her.”

  “Yes, I figure the same. They fought, he left. Then he returned to settle the beef with a couple of bullets.”

  Archie rose from the bench and glided toward the door. His body swayed and he curved his arms around his torso. “This is how it must have gone down. She hears a knock, pushes back the covers, gets up from the bed, walks to the door.” He paused, twisted the knob, and pulled open the door. “She steps aside to let in the visitor.” He shoved the door closed, then pivoted to face the room. “They move toward the bed. Anniesha in front, the visitor behind.”

  Archie’s knees bumped the mattress. He looked at me then turned toward the invisible figure in the room. “They speak for a minute, maybe Anniesha sits on the bed.” Archie fit his movements to the scenario, the mattress sagging under his weight.

  “The talk turns rough, Anniesha stands, points at the door. Maybe she closes the distance between them, trying to force the visitor from the room. The gun is pulled from a pocket, two shots fired point-blank. Anniesha falls next to the bed.” Archie stood on the stained spot where I’d found Annie’s body. “I figure that’s how it happened.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You got anything else?”

  “Annie wasn’t asleep in bed when the visitor knocked.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Her hair. When she sleeps, she wraps her hair in a silk cloth. To keep it smooth. But when I found her, her hair wasn’t wrapped. It was spread across the floor. Loose. That means she was still awake, not yet ready for sleep. Maybe she was sitting up in bed or at the desk working when the shooter knocked.”

  “Or maybe she shed the scarf before she opened the door.”

  “Then she would have dropped it on the chair when she walked to the door. Or tossed it on the desk. Or draped it on the bathroom doorknob. The scarf wasn’t anywhere around. Still stashed in her suitcase, I bet.”

  “Okay, say you’re right. She was still awake, still working.” Archie nodded.

  I expanded my scenario: “And if she was working, maybe she was putting the finishing touches on her presentation. Which means she would have been typing on her laptop.” I raked my gaze across the room. “I don’t remember seeing it when I found her. But I was distracted. Did your crime scene gurus find her computer?”

  “I don’t remember it in the report. I’ll check.”

  “Question the manager Stevens again. He might have seen the laptop, even if I missed it. Worth looking into.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  From the bench at the foot of bed, I looked sideways at the blonde oak dresser opposite. I caught the glint of something red. On my knees, I swept an arm under the dresser. I snagged a little stone from the dark sheared carpet: a nugget of coral, filaments of glue holding dust to its roughened edges. The tear-shaped stone had fallen from a jeweler’s setting and rolled under the dresser. I thrust the coral chunk into my pants pocket before Archie saw my movements. Annie had worn silver earrings with coral. Gerry Keith and Sally Anastos had decorated themselves with coral jewelry too. This stone chip might be a clue. Or it might be a coincidence. I would find out on my own. No need for police interference or help. This was my case now.

  “See anything under there? We stopped housekeeping from cleaning. Our boys are pretty thorough. But we didn’t want to disturb the scene until we were ready to let it go.”

  “Nothing. Just lint rolled into a ball.”

  I picked at a frayed thread on the cuff of my black shirt sleeve. I clamped my lids shut, but my mind churned over the past. Annie and I had known each other for two decades, together for ten, hitched for seven. I spent three of those years in Iraq and three more AWOL from our marriage. When Annie finally quit me, it felt like a curse and a blessing at the same time. I contributed zero to her business success, except for a solid reason to strike out on her own.

  The thought torrent dammed shut and I blinked twice. Then again. My dry lids stretched over scratchy pupils. Archie tipped his square head so his eyes caught mine. He shifted an inch closer on the bench until I could feel the heat coursing through his suit jacket and into my shoulder.

  “We’ll find him, pal. Don’t doubt it. We’ll find him.” His assurance was hollow, but comforting all the same.

  Words came before I could stop them. “I hadn’t heard from her since I arrived in Harlem three years ago. I’ve been pretty lucky since then, you know that. But this reunion was a high stakes play.”

  “You told Brina this?”

  “No.”

  “You should. She can help.”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged and clamped shut. Archie was right. It didn’t happen often; he missed nine times out of ten, which is why he kept me around. This time he was right.

  Brina’d hear from me. But I wanted to be ready before we talked. Ready to unpack the truth: I’d thought about taking up with Annie. Wanted to sleep with her. If I’d had my wish that night, Annie might still be alive. And maybe I’d be on a plane to Miami. To a new future. I’d been close to trashing my present for a chance at resurrecting the past. But with two shots, someone had murdered my past and slaughtered my future.

  We walked to the door. I stood alone for a minute in the murder room, taking it in one last time. To give me privacy, Archie stepped along the corridor so I couldn’t see him through the open door. I glanced in the full-length mirror near the closet. My face was gray and blurred, as if I’d walked through cobwebs and not bothered to wipe away the film.

  This revelation to Brina might be the ugly story which ripped us apart. Maybe she’d give up on this forlorn fix-it project she’d made of me and continue her life hurt but unburdened. Brina would hear from me. But not yet. First, I wanted to catch a killer.

  I scrubbed my face until heat returned to my jaw. In the hall, I trailed Archie through the maze of thick carpeting to the brass elevators. When he stood aside, I punched the down button with the butt of my fist.

  Chapter

  Eight

  I picked at the crusts of Brina’s sandwiches for breakfast and lunch Sunday. Herb’s smug feline support helped lift the gloom, as did a slow march around the neighborhood. The sun scalded the pavement until a pink haze shimmied from under the feet of trudging drifters. Odors of sweaty shoe leather, onions, and carbon monoxide thickened the air as I walked. I wanted a pause in the misery, a breech in the grim fog. My ramble took me to the door of the Emerald Garden restaurant, just below our agency office. I spotted Norment Ross inside. I didn’t duck; I wanted the help he could give me. The old man grinned, then waved me in. To escape the blues, I needed good kicks in the ass and the head. Norment Ross supplied both. Late Sunday afternoon, he unpacked his tool kit.

  We parked at a table in the rear of the deli. Loud, bawdy, charming, and tough in equal measure, Norment set his checkered driving cap on reviving me. His method was the spoken word, his instrument a smooth voice inflected with Southern charisma. He bombarded me with stories, legends, and fables about his past. He spoke of his childhood and teen years on the wild side of stately Charleston, his early days running numbers in New York.

  Mei Young, the owner of the Emerald Garden, was also our landlady. After Norment talked at me for eight minutes, she brought two big bowls of savory noodles. To spark my shriveled appetite, she’d dug deep
into her Chinese repertoire instead of serving the standard deli sandwiches the restaurant offered.

  Norment’s long frame, wrapped in a brass-colored sharkskin suit and a chocolate brown collarless shirt, was stretched under our table. His ankle bumped a casual rhythm against my chair leg as he talked. Norment often took lunch at this table with Mei Young. The two enjoyed a reliable, but mysterious relationship. They slept together, sure. But I didn’t know what she was to him. Was Mei a fierce defender of domestic order like Sherlock’s Mrs. Hudson? Or a wily control officer in Norment’s neighborhood secret service? Was she pal, mistress, guide, or matron? As I looked across the red Formica table at my boss, I wondered what fired their bond, which seemed as flat and unchanging as the western prairie.

  It was after four, Norment usually ate at twelve thirty. But three days of frustration pushed our hostess to extraordinary efforts in the cause of making me eat. The tall bottles of San Miguel beer Mei sat beside the bowls combined with the smoky spices of the noodle sauce to make my mouth water. Her temptation worked; my stomach growled in approval. I grabbed a fork and nodded at Norment to continue his stories. He did, with gusto.

  He talked about starting a private security agency in Harlem because he’d never gather enough money to go to law school and his past as a numbers runner meant he couldn’t enter the police academy.

  But there was something missing from these tales. I picked at the sore spot. “You never talk about her, Norment.”

  “Who’s that?” He knew, but he made me say it.

  “You never talk about your wife. Why?”

  “Didn’t think you wanted to know. That’s why.”

  “I do now.”

  He peered into my eyes, squinting to judge if I was sincere. “Now? That what you want. Right now? For sure?”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “I’ll do better than that, son.” He straight-armed the table, causing the chair joints to squeak. “I’ll show you. Come on.”

  Norment moved fast for an old man. By the time I’d gulped the last of my beer and scrambled through the restaurant door, he was tapping his toe on the curb at the crosswalk. I hurried to join him. I’d seen him zip through the boulevard’s traffic many times; but now he waited at the corner for the light in deference to my gimpy foot.